Patience! till the morning breezes wave again your turban’s plume;
  Morning air and rosy dawning are their heralds to the tomb. 
  Once again to dust shall daylight doom these Wand’rers of the night;
  See, it dawns!—­A joyous welcome neigh our horses to the light!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  DUSK ON THE DEAD SEA EUGEN BRACHT]

  HAD I AT MECCA’S GATE BEEN NOURISHED[43] (1836)

  Had I at Mecca’s gate been nourished,
    Or dwelt on Yemen’s glowing sand,
  Or from my youth in Sinai flourished,
    A sword were now within this hand.

  Then would I ride across the mountains
    Until to Jethro’s land I came,
  And rest my flock beside the fountains
    Where once the bush broke forth in flame.

  And ever with the evening’s coolness
    My kindred to the tent would throng,
  When verses with impassioned fulness
    Would stream from me in glowing song.

  The treasure of my lips would dower
    A mighty tribe, a mighty land,
  And as with a magician’s power
    I’d rule, a monarch, ’mid the sand.

  My list’ners are a nomad nation,
    To whom the desert’s voice is dear;
  Who dread the simoon’s devastation
    And fall before his wrath in fear.

  All day they gallop, never idle—­
    Save by the spring—­till set of sun;
  They dash with loosely swaying bridle
    From Aden unto Lebanon.

  At night upon the earth reclining
    They watch amid their sleeping herds,
  And read the scroll of heaven, shining
    With golden-lettered mystic words.

  They often hear strange voices mutter
    From Sinai’s earthquake-shattered, height,
  While desert phantoms rise and flutter
    In wreaths of smoke before their sight.

  See!—­through yon fissure deep and dim there
    The demon’s forehead glows amain,
  For as with me so ’tis with him there—­
    In the skull’s cavern seethes the brain.

  Oh, land of tents and arrows flying! 
    Oh, desert people brave and wise! 
  Thou Arab on thy steed relying,—­
    A poem in fantastic guise!

  Here in the dark I roam so blindly—­
    How cunning is the North, and cold! 
  Oh, for the East, the warm and kindly,
    To sing and ride, a Bedouin bold!

* * * * *

  WILD FLOWERS[44] (1840)

  Alone I strode where the broad Rhine flowed,
    The hedge with roses was covered,
  And wondrous rare through all the air
    The scent of the vineyards hovered. 
  The cornflowers blue, the poppies too,
    Waved in the wheat so proudly! 
  From a cliff near-by the joyous cry
    Of a falcon echoed loudly.